Twist
by zimasnyek
Summary: Winter is visiting Russia again, and Ivan isn't so happy with how things are. Quick, vague drabble.


"It's hard to believe you've made it this far, isn't it?"

His voice was soft, but gruff. It was always that way; gentle, light, but always had that edge to it, that hoarseness like an icicle breaking, hitting the harshly-snowed ground.

Ivan stared straight ahead, his violet eyes watching all he could see. It was only snow, more snow; vastness of white. The skies were a light ash-like color, smoky, like smog from the factories. It was foggy; Ivan could only see maybe three meters ahead of him, before the flat land of snow faded into what seemed to be an abyss of nothing. The fog blended into the sky, everything a blur of shades of white.

"Иван, you're silent again."

The older man leaned over Ivan's shoulder, setting his hand on it, giving a weak smile. But it was hardly sincere; if anything, it was menacing, dark, a subtle grin of mischievous intention.

Ivan was completely still, aside from his left hand, his fingers that gripped over the steel pipe he still wielded after years. Even under the gloves, his fingers were frozen, numb, like his whole body. The iciness in the pipe wasn't exactly helpful; it was old, rusted. Icicles hung down from the faucet, frost formed around each opening, ice glazed over old blood.

His eyes focused straight ahead. He wouldn't be surprised if they were frozen in place, too; like the rest of him.

The other, older male stroked a finger down Ivan's shoulder blade, a bit absently, his snowflake eyes focusing on the nation's silver hair, which was gathering the snow that continued to fall.

"If you stand still too long, you'll get buried here, _Россия_," he stated, a bit matter-of-factly, even if it had a hint of teasing.

Russia, however, was not laughing. His eyes finally moved again; it hurt to do just that. They were dry, cold; they felt bare, vulnerable to the cold air.

He looked down, realizing that indeed, the snow had been gathering around him. He was ankle-deep in the draft, the white flurry over his boots, working its way up to the edge of his long coat.

His figure slumped for barely a moment, the grasp on his pipe loosening as he stared straight down into white.

He curled back his lips, nearly snarling, baring his teeth like a wolf protecting its territory. He made no sound as he lifted one foot out of the snow, the drift falling down into what seemed to be the eternal void of snow, taking a step forward.

His eyes weren't dark, or angry. They didn't hold much emotion at all right now. He was used to this; every winter, this man, this _entity_ visited. And he helped, in his ways. He kept out the worst of the worst. If it weren't for him, they might as well be in the state Nazi Germany was in the 1940s. For that, he was grateful.

"Oh, Иван. Where are you going?" the man asked honestly, following behind him.

He made no sound, however, and no snow fell from his shoes, or wetness banked in his clothing. His movement was silent, aside from maybe a similar sound to the blizzard wind that blows. Only his voice could be heard; soft, quiet, almost a whisper, but still curt.

"To see a friend, Да," Ivan stated simply, his eyes turning a little lighter to the thought.

"Oh?" the older man asked as he continued to follow, silently, through the wind and snow.

"Кто? Lithuania?" he asked, out of honest curiosity, his gaze bored as he walked along.

"Нет."

The older man furrowed his eyebrows, frowning slightly, mostly in confusion.

"Германия? You haven't talked to your friend _Deutschland_ in a while."

Ivan clenched his teeth abruptly, the corners of his mouth still curled back. He suddenly tightened his grip on the pipe, feeling a few throbs of pain run through the veins in his frozen hand as it tensed.

He considered that pipe sort of a relic, a piece of…what he considered a friendship that he once had. That pipe that he used to break bones, slaughter flesh, jab into eyes, was the exact same one from Germany's own soil.

"Нет."

The other male adjusted his general's helmet a bit, mostly out of boredom, as they continued to walk.

"Я не знаю. Who is it?"

The tall nation ignored the tone of the voice that began to get on his nerves. He was numb, all around; from the cold, from the vodka, locking his 'true' emotions away, as he always would. He wasn't going to let this old grump get to him, especially not…lost in the snow.

The sneer on his lips curled up slightly, faintly. His amethyst eyes seemed to sparkle, lit up slightly as he gave the faintest smile in thought. Even his stride appeared to ease up, as he seemed almost cheerful again.

The general watched him with a casual, stern face as they strode, waiting patiently.

"Amerika."

First time writing in…a really long time. Kinda rusty.

Not sure if I should continue this, or leave it where it is.

Reviews?


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